


not bulletproof

by nightcalling



Category: I Care A Lot (2020)
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, F/F, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29917275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: She tastes like iron, most of the time.
Relationships: Fran/Marla Grayson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 106





	not bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just finished watching this movie with some friends and banged this out in one sitting afterward. It is now nearly midnight. At first, this wasn’t going to be a fix-it, but then halfway through writing, I decided, you know what? Never mind. This is now a fix-it.

She tastes like iron, most of the time.

In the mornings, when Fran finds Marla up at 5 AM, eyes blown wide to bloodshot and staring at her laptop screen. She’d refill Marla’s coffee for her, place it in her hands, and kiss it off her lips after she takes a sip, an enticement to come back to bed. Marla never does, but then again, Fran never goes back to bed herself either, opting to remain in the kitchen where it’s warmer.

In the afternoons, when Marla has returned from court, typically around 2 PM, and has yet to fill her stomach with anything other than a protein bar. She’d have Marla’s chicken caesar salad (no tomatoes) ready on her desk, along with a fork and napkin; reusable, never disposable, and she’d kiss the balsamic vinegar off her fingers when Marla ‘accidentally’ lets the packet slide from her grasp.

In the evenings, when Marla returns from her workouts, 6 PM sharp, still dressed in her form-fitting clothes that accent her slim waist and hips, forehead drenched in sweat—not from the exercise, but from the run back to the apartment. She’d dry Marla off with the towel she’s left by the door, and she’d kiss her temples where she misses a spot. She always manages to miss a spot, it seems, though Marla has yet to call her out on it.

In the late nights, when Marla is finally unwinding for the day and letting her armor down in the shower around 1 AM, water soaking her bright blonde hair to dark brown. She’d crawl out of bed just to join Marla, just to press against her skin-to-skin, and she’d kiss the soap-sudded droplets off of her breasts, her stomach, her belly-button, and even further down, until Marla is moaning sweet nothings with that viper tongue of hers, profane words echoing inside Fran’s ears.

Marla tastes like iron, and Fran thinks it must be because Marla is made of steel. It’s not always a compliment, Lord knows she can be stubborn as hell; but most of the time, it is. It is, when Marla abandons her laptop to smile up at Fran as thanks. It is, when Marla flicks her fingers and stains Fran’s blouse with the remnants of vinegar still coating her skin. It is, when Marla peels off her sweaty bra one-handed and tosses it in Fran’s direction, as an invitation. It is, when Marla comes from Fran’s tongue in the shower and kneels onto the tiled floor to kiss her, to let her taste the blood in her own mouth from biting the inside of her cheek.

Marla tastes like iron, and Fran loves it, because it reminds her that Marla is not bulletproof. She holds the gun in her hands, but she pulls the trigger to protect her own. She uses people as assets, but she keeps them at arm’s length to keep them safe. She is ruthless, but she is kind to the people she loves.

They don’t see it, most of the time, the kindness. They see the coldness, they see the venom, they see the bitch. But they don’t look further than that, and that’s a shame. They don’t know that she bleeds, just like the rest of them.

She’s bleeding now, in Fran’s arms. Red, staining her shirt, soaked clean through like the shower water soaks her skin. There are some on her face, around her lips. How did it get there? She was shot in the heart. One-hit KO, nothing left for anywhere else. That must be from Fran’s own fingerprints, having roamed her hands so carelessly over Marla’s body in search of the off button that she’d accidentally smeared the blood everywhere, making it worse.

There has to be an off button. That’s too much blood.

“Hold on, baby,” Fran says, hugging her close. She cradles Marla’s face and tells her, “You’ll be fine. You’re going to be fine.”

Marla’s eyes are wide but growing dim, blue but growing grey. She reaches a hand up, brushing Fran’s hair aside, and Fran knows it’s because she doesn’t want the blood to taint her too. Even now, Marla is still so kind.

“Help is coming,” Fran says. She hears it in the distance. Marla just has to: “Hold on.” She leans down, kissing Marla’s bright red lips. She tastes like iron, especially now.

After Fran breaks the kiss, she sees more red painting Marla’s skin. Lights, from somewhere behind them. The ambulance.

Uniforms surround them, dull browns that make the blood that much more apparent. “We’ll take it from here,” one of them says. She sounds young but experienced. Grace, her nametag says.

“Take care of her,” Fran says, backing away. She doesn’t really want to, but she can’t do much more now. All she can hope for is a miracle.

The ride to the hospital is a long one, longer than that time they’d driven across the country from Massachusetts to California. To see the sights, Marla had said, even though she was the one who disliked traveling. But that was the anniversary of Fran’s mother’s death, and Marla always knew that what she needed most was to get far away from home.

Marla isn’t bleeding anymore, lying in the back of the ambulance, but it may be a trick of the eyes. The paramedics ensure her that it isn’t, that they’ve stopped the bleeding, but they don’t know how much Marla can bleed once she’s cut.

It’s a grueling few hours once they reach the hospital, the day stretching into two. It was sometime in the morning when they had arrived. Or maybe it was the afternoon. Or maybe it was night. She can’t tell anymore, couldn’t tell you if you asked. All she knows is that she’s paced up and down the white hallways more times than she can remember, and that the walls are too bright.

It’s dawn when the operating room light fades from red to grey. Or maybe it’s dusk, she thinks, as she looks out the window.

Someone dressed in white, also too bright, exits the door. He looks important.

“She’s stable,” he says, after taking off his mask. Ryans, his nametag says. “She’s still under from the anesthesia, but we’ve also given her painkillers. She should be awake in an hour or so.”

“Painkillers.” Fran stares at the man’s—Ryans’—bushy eyebrows. “So, she’s…”

“She’s stable,” Ryans says again. He smiles, very kindly. Suddenly, the white isn’t too bright, after all. “You can wait with her in her room if you’d like.”

“Yes, please.”

A nurse takes her to Room 105 in the C wing of the hospital. Winnie, her nametag says.

“105 was the number of our honeymoon suite,” Fran tells her, for no reason whatsoever. She doesn’t know what compelled her to divulge such personal information to a stranger. Maybe because the nurse has a name and that’s enough to make her a friend.

Winnie smiles, also kindly. Fran is unsure if that’s the case—perhaps she’s just overtaken with elation from seeing Marla safe and sound on the bed. “Would you like anything? Water?”

“No, thank you.” Fran sits down in the chair by the bed, her eyes never leaving Marla’s face. There are so many tubes poking out of her. It makes her sick to her stomach. “Actually, water would be great. Thanks.”

She hears, distantly, Winnie walking out of the room. She leans onto the bed, careful to not disturb any of the complicated contraptions. Here it is, world: evidence that Marla Grayson isn’t bulletproof.

She falls asleep before Winnie returns with the water. She dreams of the best, dreams of the worst. She wakes to a gentle nudge against her cheek, and raises her head to see blue eyes, not grey, looking back at her.

Marla can’t actually speak because her mouth is covered with a breathing apparatus, which is a good thing because it’s keeping her alive. At the same time, Fran is so fraught with relief that she can’t bear not kissing Marla just to reassure herself that she is indeed alive and not a ghost.

She settles, in the end, for placing a gentle hand around Marla’s wrist. There’s still some dried blood there, but it doesn’t make her as queasy as it did before. She lowers her lips to Marla’s fingertips, just a light brush of skin against skin.

Marla tastes like iron, even now. Marla is made of steel, even now. Marla is alive, even now.

Fran smiles at her, and knows that Marla is smiling back.


End file.
